Fright turns to flight
by Leara Fiera
Summary: A dark villain makes Buffy scatter from Sunnydale with a companion. She uses liquor to postpone the fright that will be her death if she does not face what has cost her friends' lives. Then an old darkness enters her life that she fears and longs for..
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **I wrote this awhile ago when I was half way through the series. I'm a loyal BA shipper and also BAus if it's written well, so through the entire show from season four 'til the end, I waited for a spark of BA. However, in this piece I've chosen Spike to be friendly and supporting, something I didn't like in the show (and no, I haven't seen Angel more than season two/three yet).

Anyway, I like this and I'll add more in pieces. This is part one and please **review** to let me know if you like it or not. If you hate it, let me know. I just want a response! I crave it!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel or any or the characters. They belong to Joss Whedon.

* * *

"What a party, huh?"

He flinched, not having seen, sensed or even scented her behind him. He grew annoyed but his facial expression and mood changed when he saw the look before his eyes.

She was wearing a ruby-red satin dress that was elegant and somewhat bizarre in its style; the torso was clad in the bloody color that constantly changed and adapted to its new light from the dim room. The skirt highlighted her tiny waist and reached just below the knees in a subtle waterfall of flames. He noticed that she was a few inches taller than usual and eyed the black, discrete stilettos on her feet.

He looked up to roll his eyes at her appearance, but stopped breathless and a bit ashamed.

Her normally pastel eyes were smoky and made his head spin, because they were so absent and yet weighting their gaze at him. He felt like he'd just underestimated her and growled inside. She wore a mysterious look, and it amazed him how supernatural she seemed just in the silky fabric. Her blonde hair – which had just recently been dyed, he noted, when they were in Chicago – was sat in a nice bun, leaving a straightened lock to rest along her jawline.

The Slayer grinned as she saw his stunned expression. It was a cover-up for something else, he knew, but pretended to see the false nature of her intended face. Her lips were painted, he noted, too, something she did rarely, but had started more recently to do. She was still in denial except for the times, she were sober enough to see through the lies, she kept telling herself.

He sighed. The incident at the Holiday Inn last week she might have forgotten, but he had been the one to flee from the scene with a stumbling, drunken Slayer in his arms. The thought still bothered him, but seeing her like this – socializing, even if it was just to gain information and possibly, booze – was somewhat calming.

"You got something, love?" he asked her as he allowed his eyes to travel over the big crowd in the room; their appetizing scents – everything he couldn't touch, except for hers, and he couldn't do that either – and their moody nature. Humans were more difficult than they'd ever been and part of it was their new sophisticated arrogance.

"Not yet," Buffy reported, her eyes skimming the room again, among the walls, the bar, the dance floor and the tables. Her vision stopped short at the stairs where a small group of people were coming in. Spike had sensed them, too, and knew that not everyone in it was human; at least two were out of place and belonged somewhere else. He could feel their tension and their emotions throll.

She mumbled something under her breath that wasn't audible enough for him, took a glass of champagne from the waiter passing without even flinching or stepping out of her confusion, drowned in one second and spoke to him: "Gotta get a new one," she excused herself and left his side.

He nodded, but she was already gone. Angry of himself for not being able to keep a conversation with her for more than a few seconds when she was like this. He tasted a glass himself and wrenched his face in disgust; the alcohol was high-leveled and plausibly spiked.

They'd be stumbling home at dawn, he decided, and looked at the group again; they had upset the Slayer and he considered them therefore a threat. They had resolved, but the remaining figure made him groan loudly into his glass, gulping the liquor.

What were Angel doing here?

* * *

Buffy felt disorientated already; maybe it was the alcohol on her breath – no, she told herself, frowning, she hadn't had that much already – or maybe it was the way the room made her dizzy. Her balance seemed graceful to anyone else, but years from Slayer training – a memory she painfully putted away – had taught her to walk, fight and slay as a feline and sharped her senses. Maybe it was a spell of some kind...

_No, you just want it to be. Admit it, you have reached your limit! You can't continue to do this to yourself. They wouldn't have wanted this –_

She forced herself to trail off the thought. The memories were too hard for her to go through and instead she focused on her sixth sense. They – she and Spike – had arrived here to slay demons and vampires, not to party; although that was what they were doing.

A song played throughout the room and she tensed as if it'd been an enemy. The past haunted her – quite literally – but she wasn't ready to face Gru'zil yet. He scared her, although she'd never admitted that, to the bone. He made her teeth clench, her spine shiver and mouth stutter. She wasn't scared, no, she was terrified.

_Not a worthy feeling for a Slayer to have_, the voice in her head said, just as Gru'zil had predicted. If he wasn't the one to find and destroy her, it would be things as fear, fright and terror that would be the ones to end her. That was why she kept drinking even if it meant horrible hangovers and suicidal thoughts: simple fear of fearing, fear of being useless and helpless.

She kept her facade up, according to her fake ID they'd made in Chicago: the 22-year-old Marcy Grimoire was able to protect herself, had a small reputation as a combat instructor and expert in a few martial arts, and, the most important thing: unaware of the demonic and vampiric activities. She smiled ghostly at the name; Marcy had been the name of a girl she once sent to a government program for being invisible.

She wouldn't admit it, but she'd chosen the name of the invisible girl because she wanted to be invisible herself. No more evil than necessary and they had no change of knowing that the Slayer was the one to put a stake through their heart and not just some young woman who'd read an article on the Net about vampires.

So, Marcy Brooklyn Grimoire looked at the crowd and smiled emptily. Grimoire had been a name, she'd chosen to honor her fallen friends and keep her aware of the threat that was constantly tearing her a part; Gru'zil had killed Willow and Tara without blinking because they were her friends and witches at the same time. He had executed them as people had done in Salem during the witch trials and left their corpses for her to find.

Yes, the Grimoire book had been the book, Willow had read aloud to her when she was weak from one of Gru'zil's first attempts to kill her, when he was still weak and vulnerable.

Disguised, she still felt like a walking target for Gru'zil to hit at any time. This was the only way to distract herself. Only difference from her past was that she was running away, the one being chased. She felt lonely and had multiple times been unable to resist herself and almost kissed Spike. That couldn't happen, so she had sought alcohol instead and what a nice, old temptation. She was tipsy during the day and drunk by midnight; she survived, it was cool.

She was ever on the watch for Gru'zil though; never allowed herself to fall in some trap by sleeping with a stranger that would turn out to be one of Gru'zil's minions. This was why her heart now raced and not only because of the liquor on her tongue.

Buffy had seen _him. _Not him like Gru'zil, but _him. _The only other existence that made her head spin and her heart rest, feel safe and completely surrender without a fight. She'd seen him, she was sure, but he couldn't see him now. He didn't know she was here and she would like to keep it that way; too many questions. Too many unanswered questions that didn't have any response and would paralyze her and possibly make her cry.

Out there he waited. She could feel him nearing. _Angel._

* * *

_Once a hero, now a coward,_

_Once a protector, now simply erased_

_Afraid of being overpowered,_

_Hoping to flee without being traced._


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Before (or after) you read this chapter, there's a few things I'd like to clear. To be crystal-clear, you all must know that in my story – THIS story – Dawn never happened. She was merely a stranger sent to be protected by the Slayer. She ascended when Glory died (whom Buffy defeated). This story is set mid-season 6 without Spike falling for Buffy/sleeping with her, though he might realize he feels something for her. Spike still has his chip and can't hurt anyone besides Buffy. The Adam affair didn't happen, instead I have my own super-villain. I'm not entirely clear if Anya fits in anywhere. If anyone is confused, no, Riley is not here anymore, out of the picture but may make a reappearance.

If you have _any _questions, please ask!

(I will not reveal when in Angel, it takes place, but same timeline with different events!)

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Angel, Buffy: the Vampire Slayer or any of the characters. Well, I own Gru'zil if that's any consolation (it's not).

* * *

_Even now, you're impossible to control_

_Terror surrounds you, out of your mind_

_you loathe yourself and doubt your soul_

_what're you looking for, expecting to find_

_you seek nothing, you have no goal_

_you are wandering drunken and blind_

_in the midnight – what is it he stole?_

_From you so he can you spellbind_

_he has sent you to this insane hellhole_

* * *

He doubted whether or not he should follow her. For the .005 of a second. He – of all people – knew what kind of effect the ensouled vampire had on her. In this state, he just wasn't sure if she would resolve to a creature of tears and sobs or she would deny the cause of her sudden exit of their conversation. If it had been one to begin with. These days he wasn't sure if he was just her tag-along or if she considered him a human, err, a being.

He knew that he was the remaining character of the tragedy that was her life. Her friends and their friends were either dead and one leftover was in a coma, only alive as a means to lure her out if the temptation grew too big. Several times had he been forced to restrain her from hurting herself in the process of going back. If she ever returned to the town she had been the guardian of for so many years, her life – and Xander's as well – would end quicker than she could imagine. Even though they had left Sunnydale weeks prior, partly because she had fled, partly because he had insisted that they _had _to go now or she would be next (which she had considered fair at the time, given her lack of friends that were alive). He knew for a fact that she would never be able to outrun the fears and trauma of the deaths that she – according to herself – were responsible for.

He hadn't known Willow, Tara and Xander as much as he'd admit. Surely they meant something for him. He had grown accustomed to Xander's hostility, Willow's kindness and the stuttering of the McClay witch. Although the loss was far the greatest on the Slayer's part, he too mourned them in his kind of way. He had considered Giles – oh, how the death of her Watcher had defeated Buffy – a sworn enemy and now, he actually felt like Giles had been the constant factor of opposition in his life. No matter what, Giles had always remembered his ways before the chip and judged him for it. To say that in these times it was a comfort, wasn't exaggeration. He longed for the days he was evil's lapdog.

His private mission was blind to her, however; he was collecting alliances. Few of his acquaintances would willingly join to fight for their party; the majority would – like he would have, had it not been for a governmental chip in his brain and, he liked to think of it, self-restraint – rather stay to watch the Slayer go down. He stood alone with an alcoholic Slayer and he wasn't even sure if she wanted to fight Gru'zil. Surely revenge had its temptation but she knew that her death would in the end mean that her responsibility would burden a new girl – maybe even someone unknowing and she couldn't do that. Perhaps the Potential had friends and would include them in her fight for goodness and they would die, like her friends had done.

And like she would, if she continued down this road to self-destruction. He was sure that he was the wrong one to call her out on her use of the bottle but so far he was the only one left – beside Angel, who was now here. Now he wasn't sure that the ensouled vampire would be a positive influence of her recent behavior. If they collided, the emotional state of the Slayer would end in an attempt to prove Angel wrong and her temper was not a target of amusement today. He had agreed to play along the route to the Slayer's denial but someone had to make her face the facts. Admittedly, he was too much of a coward to do it. He had been there when she found her friends, he had been there when she had first sought the bottle and he had been there when the hangovers and memories of Gru'zil send her down a spiral to collapsed judgments. He knew better than to take Buffy out of the trance she was in now.

One thing he feared himself; that Gru'zil would keep her alive to avoid a new Slayer being called. That he would tear her apart so she was just scarcely alive and leave her restrained and locked up, reminding her of what she deserved in her own opinion. To the brutal, mind games playing demon, the Slayer was weak and only there to his amusement. Nobody would be powerful enough to defeat Gru'zil: it would take someone without emotions and human feeling to do it. He would willingly have volunteered himself but he had weaknesses: the sun, crosses, holy water... Even a vampire like himself – who'd once been feared by his own species – could not save the Slayer from either Gru'zil or her own self-destruction.

He sighed while his eyes tracked the route of his companion. The red dress was nowhere to be seen and with the mixed scents of perfumes – and, of course, the presence of not only himself but another vampire – he lost trail of Buffy quickly. He eyed the glass of champagne she had been drinking of and grimaced. The scent of alcohol was so strong it almost disturbed his digestive system. How could she stand, so tiny she was, when she has gulped this?

Spike frowned and waited, planning how to proceed with cautiousness. He couldn't confront Angel. The LA vampire had no knowledge of his "reformed nature" and would assume he had either given the Slayer something to obey his wishes (though even the suggestion of that made Spike shiver; Angel wouldn't let him live if that was his first impression) or he was stalking her like an animal stalks the prey. Once he would have let Angel assume that and bragged proudly about it, but now he felt pathetic even thinking it. He kept to the shadows, nevertheless, knowing that Angel possibly had seen Buffy already and would leave Spike's face a mess if he found his presence here.

Spike had never understood Angel's fascination with the doll (as he'd chosen to call the Slayer in his mind) until he'd fought beside her. Aside from her apparent beauty, her personality and values were charming at least and she gave the innocent impression Angel had been looking for for years. It was no coincidence Angel's redemption had been inspired by the doll. How he had left made Spike wonder what she'd said. He couldn't put a finger or a fang on what their current relationship was, but it was strained. He doubted she'd even acknowledge him if he approached her. Angel and Buffy were a tragedy and the Slayer didn't need that right now.

He found himself watching and studying Angel's little group from the shadows. The ensouled vampire had left his group, probably startled to see the doll and on a search for her. He was accompanied by three men. One black, entirely human yet looking like he'd not be surprised by the presence of vampires. Spike saw the stake by his ankle and smirked; was he aware that, he himself, was with a vampire? He was head-shaved and though not built like a body builder, he was clearly the muscle. The others were that Watcher, English and terrible. His glasses were recognizable and his posture was different. Perhaps he'd changed. Wesley was the name. Their third companion, barely adult, was a longhaired boy with a pained gaze. His hair was ash-brown and his eyes dark, reminding Spike of... Angel? He looked sulking and a tiny bit of brooding, though aware and ready to fight.

Spike's study was interrupted by the ground trembling. An earth quake, one from the west coast would've said, but they were heated, energy floating from them. The group immediately sprung to awareness, looking for evil. Spike – in any other situation – would have been relaxed and amused but now he ran through the crowd of semi-panicking humans to locate his companion. She'd disappeared and Angel, too, was out of sight. Bad things would happen if they collided. He hurried.

He found her in what appeared to be a study chamber. It was private, away from the party and had given her physical peace as her mind dissolved. He saw the signs of a panic attack, not caused by the quakes that terrorized the world around them, but by the presence of the ensouled vampire – and everything that had happened in the past few months. He had hoped that alcohol had numbed her, as it did nineteen hours out of twenty-four, but this clearly meant that her mental instability was not anesthetized, like usual.

She leaned against the wall, eyes focused on something invisible in front of her, paralyzed by fright. Spike closed the door behind him, not worrying about the quakes as much as the doll's status, as he knew that they would stop the moment he calmed her down or got her away from here. It had been a mistake to bring her so close to Los Angeles – Angel's city. He hoped that the miles would separate them (Buffy and Angel) but he had underestimated the tingly feeling both parties had whenever they were nearby each other. Nevertheless, Angel had seemed surprised by Buffy's presence, as she had his. It had, after all, been years since they'd seen each other.

"Buffy," he said as he shook her, starting gently but, seeing as he got no reaction, more violently. Her icy appearance from ten minutes ago was gone, her exterior dissolved and left was a terrified girl with more strength and fears than he'd ever seen. Her determination was gone, though, and he didn't know how to handle her. For the first time, he wished that he'd died instead of the Watcher, or maybe Red. Hell, Xander would probably handle it worse than him. All he knew was that he'd never lost _everything worth living for _and he couldn't offer perspective. Even then, she wouldn't listen.

"Luv, you have to stop this! You are risking people's lives! _Everyone out there,_" he hissed, yelling quietly. Finally he got her attention – or, at least, her awareness. Her eyes flickered towards him and for a moment, the trembling stopped. He felt relief, but then the ground clattered as she widened her eyes because of something behind him.

"_Buffy? _Calm down, you're killing them," Spike said but had lost her. He looked behind himself as Buffy melted like butter in his arms, lying unconscious. Luckily for him, it was the unconscious slayer that prevented Angel from smashing his skull. He looked angry though. The quakes dissolved quietly as a result of Buffy's unconsciousness.

"Easy boy, it's not as it seems," Spike hurried to say as Angel's expression darkened and fury filled his veins.

"How so?"

"I can't hurt humans," Spike spilled, Buffy still in his arms. He realized his mistake to late, 1) Angel wouldn't believe him, 2) if he did, he'd make fun of it for the rest of their undead lives. He held back a groan, deciding it was unsuitable in this situation.

Angel looked confused, growl still on his lips, semi-vamped.

"Governmental chip in my head, remember? Yeah right, you saw me when you were spying on doll here a few years back!"

Suddenly Angel became – if it was even possible – more aware on the seemingly lifeless Slayer in his arms. He checked for a pulse, not trusting Spike for a moment, while Spike rolled his eyes at the paranoid behavior. They were alone, the guests of the party outside the house, not accustomed to the quakes that sent guts in the throat.

"'Believe me now? Sod off if you don't. Look, she's exhausted and in a few hours, the sun will rise. Dunno about your reaction to that, but I sure ain't too happy to be toasted. Help me get her away?" Spike said defiantly and ashamed. He did not want Angel's help but with the panic and the uncooperative vampire, it would be best for him – and her – if he allowed Captain Forehead to help. That way the ensouled vampire might actually realize his intentions to do no harm – unless provoked.

Angel nodded, still staring at the Slayer. Her auburn hair, the dress and the unmistakable stench of liquor on her breath. "No, I didn't give her anything. This is her own doing... well, and partly yours."

For the first time, Angel spoke without anger. "My fault?"

"Yeah, she saw you and then the place went crashing. Her reaction... probably caused by a panic attack."

"Wait, you saying that that earth quake was _her?_" Angel asked baffled.

An aftershock interrupted their conversation and sent them stumbling. Angel looked at Buffy and made a decision. He pulled up a cell phone – baffling Spike – and called a number, instructing someone to find the Rokhra demon themselves.

"Let's go."


End file.
